


drifting back to you

by ForestFish



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Puns, Dissociation, Eros and Thanatos, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Back Together, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Odd, References to Depression, References to the Oldies music, They talk and make jokes during sex, Weird Plot Shit, meeting again after many years, that's all, there we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestFish/pseuds/ForestFish
Summary: The thing about Hanamaki Takahiro was that he was a nobody, but he had dreams, big ones, that would either fall flat or pull through and bloom. Everything had fallen flat.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	drifting back to you

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there, I don't know what led you to click this fic, but thank you for being here. 
> 
> This fic is slightly on the odd side and I beg you to read the tags. Everything's there. Nothing is romanticised. This was me indulging myself (the songs and the jokes) and projecting to get some of the melancholy and bitterness out of my system. I've used some of my own experiences for some of the things, just changed them slightly. For one, I never wore a cerulean hat. Writing this was honestly cathartic and maybe that's why I chose these two. I love this pairing, they're a vibe.
> 
> [Here's the playlist with the Oldies.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLA1CHeHcqVw187ZuKyXGtRd5VQQCRcUkz) Click it and play it whenever you feel like it. There's a moment they're specifically mentioned, so that's probably where you'd want them to go. Several songs aren't mentioned and that's because I got carried away. Plus, that way you'll vibe. There's a lot of The Drifters' songs here and that's where the title comes from and all that. Edit: [I've made one on Spotify as well, ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/79APCQNyEWjeLDjWYsjDhT?si=Z1WYLkpsRb-gH648ERx87A) it's slightly different but the vibe is the same.
> 
> I'm dedicating this one to my best homie, @anophiles on tumblr and @ahophiles on twitter. She's an amazing artist and she's got some great matsuhana art (a whole collection of punny comics, too).
> 
> Anyway, if you read this hot mess, I hope it's an experience you don't regret.

* * *

The thing about Hanamaki Takahiro was that he was a nobody, but he had dreams, big ones, that would either fall flat or pull through and bloom. Everything had fallen flat. Flatter than a French-style crêpe, and he’d had one of them earlier that day. Under a jolly little parasol, frayed at the edges, hastily patched up with bits of fabric, he’d had a crêpe too hot for the weather but a fine one. 

With the poise and airs of a classic flaneur and the fashion choices of a thrift store aficionado, he minced along the streets under a bright blue wide-brimmed hat and shaded from the sun with off-brand ray-bans. No need for scams, thank you very much. He preferred to acquire them from honest criminals on the street. Hanamaki Takahiro ambled on with the gaiety and gait of a man with nothing to lose.

That last job just wasn’t for him. All the responsibility, the absolute grind of sitting before a computer inserting data into an excel spreadsheet, had gotten to him, and he’d quit. Simple as that. He carefully wrote his two-week notice, handed it in, and when his time was due, he packed up and left. Then his boyfriend of a year packed up and left too, seeing that he was in no state to be anything but funny and had no intention of hunting for a sensible job. 

The hat could have been cerulean, the colour. He remembered that from something. A pretty word, cerulean, and he loved words. He wrote them, hundreds of them in neat little hilarious strings, but he didn’t have connections, so they stayed in his metaphorical drawer, dead and forgotten. That's how he wanted to have been, come night of that sweltering day.

“Ah,” he sighed and said to himself, “couldn’t do that even, guess shit just doesn’t sink unless you flush it out.” 

And he laughed at his joke. He still had his phone, his wallet, and a notebook on him. His pen had slipped down the gaps of the boardwalk. It ought to have sunk. 

He typed out the note on his phone and pocketed it in the deep pocket of the garish yellow sprinter shorts that doubled as underwear. The mismatched socks had given him a giggle at the store; one of them was higher than the other and had embroidered flowers; the other had an ugly tiger print and reached just above his ankle. Of course, the sandals had been the only possible choice to go with them – they even had straps.

It’d been a long time since he’d had friends. The people he talked to, at parties and nights out, weren’t his friends. He needed to be drunk to talk to them. More often than not, their names would be gone the next day, along with his memories. That was alright. It was the way it was supposed to be.

He adjusted his probably cerulean hat, protected from the blazing sun, and sniffed.

“A right mess is what this is,” he said aloud. He broke the back of a Lucky Strike cigarette and flicked his lighter to bring it to life. One more nail in the coffin, they’d say, and he’d laugh and blow rings of smoke. He’d have blown hearts if he could. The weather was warm, and he loved it when it was warm. He didn’t like the cold at all, “but the sun is lovely today.”

 _“Between jobs,”_ he said to anybody who asked what he did for a living. A year had passed since he’d quit his job. He was a 28-year-old man who did nothing for a living, still mooching off unemployment checks and getting by with that. 

Takahiro blew another cloud of smoke. It billowed in languid circles and faded into the probably mother-of-pearl sky. The sun was bright. His exposed skin was getting warm, and he welcomed that warmth.

“You sure know your colours today, don’t you?” he asked himself with a smile and kept walking.

* * *

That night was balmy and smooth like a cup of coffee on a Saturday morning. There was an energy in the air, under the flickering streetlights, wild like the moths flinging themselves against them. It was that energy that made his decision for him.

He went out and chose the first bar that looked promising. All he wanted was to get drunk, maybe get laid, and eventually get home. 

The bar was full, and people were dancing inside that box of smoke, sweaty in the stifling heat. He smiled, knowing then that he’d picked well. He ordered orange vodka at the bar and sat there, under his hat but removing his sunglasses. They went on the counter and with a bit of luck, would stay there. He didn’t care. His drink came, and he sipped it with delight, the sweetness of juice sliding down his gullet with the alcohol. He was a lightweight; it wouldn't be expensive to get drunk.

He felt a familiar smell then, something he’d felt before. Something unpleasant in how pleasant it was.

Then it happened.

“Takahiro?”

He turned to face the man who had sat beside him without him noticing him. Now he saw him and recognised him at once, even with orange vodka in his system.

“Matsukawa Issei, in the flesh and the bone and the handsome face, of course,” he said. Then he grinned, taking in his appearance. He looked the same, only older. He had rolled back the sleeves of his lime-green shirt, exposing his tanned forearms, “are you the one smelling like the dearly departed?”

Issei smiled and sipped on his beer. “I’m afraid so,” his old friend said. Then he grinned. “Shouldn’t have come in like this, but what can I say? I was _dying_ for a bit of fun,” he said, “couldn’t be bothered going home to shower and change.”

“Why do you smell like a funeral then?”

“It’s my job. I’m a mortician,” Issei told him, tone mild, over the music and his beer “I should have gone home and showered. I did disinfect my hands and all that. Always do. It’s the procedure. These aren’t my work clothes either.”

The words crept into Takahiro’s brain like stubborn dust through an open window, clinging to everything, impossible to get rid of. 

“You’re an undertaker?” Takahiro asked, downing the rest of his second orange vodka and signalling the barman to bring him one more. His mind reeled like the film of an old film cartridge, and he pictured what he’d seen in the pictures. He saw Matsukawa Issei doing that job, hunched over a stiff, in a white lab coat and goggles, latex gloves squeaking against the crispy white marble slab as he embalmed someone’s cold shell, sewing the mouth from the inside, filling the chest with those scented chemicals…

“Yeah, they also call it that,” Issei confirmed, “but I don’t take anybody under. All I do is care for them before someone else takes them under.” Takahiro blinked. Issei smiled and glanced at him “And you’re looking like an eccentric artist. That’s a fantastic shirt, and I love the blue hat.”

“I think it’s called cerulean,” Takahiro said. He flicked the front of the brim and exposed his forehead and his messy dyed hair. He smoothed the front of his faded red shirt. It was snazzy, he thought the rabbit print was expressive, tasteful even. “But I can’t be sure. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Issei said and finished his beer. As Takahiro did, he ordered one more, “I presume you’re here to score.”

Takahiro sipped on his third orange vodka. His heart did something.

He sniffed and shrugged. “Not anymore, I don’t think,” he said, voice mild, becoming drawly, and smiled. He wasn’t thinking anymore. In his mind, there was nothing but cold. And Matsukawa Issei, shining like a beacon, smelling like a funeral, “not with you here.”

“So, you’re single,” Issei suggested. Takahiro gestured with his hand and grinned, sipping his orange vodka, “Unsure if it interests you, but so am I.”

“You’ve got all of that right, my friend,” he said. There was a long pause after that. There was a reason the cups there were made of plastic. He gripped his orange vodka cup and crushed it, spilled the liquid across the counter. Laughter bubbled in his chest and came out in a loud bray that he couldn’t stop. Issei helped him to his feet without asking. He held him around the middle and dragged him through the crowd, outside, where he could get a hold of himself and breathe. 

“Ah,” he gasped, looking up at Issei through his blurry, watery eyes. They could have melted off, and he wouldn’t have minded it. Issei was holding him by the shoulders, not letting him fall. He still had his hat on, “ah, deary me.”

“Deary you indeed,” Issei said, “how drunk are you?”

Takahiro sniffled and snorted. “Not as much, not as much as I’d like,” he said and meant it “I’m supposed to be a lightweight. Why the fuck am I all weight and no light?”

“You are light, you’re all light, and you’ll be alright,” Issei chuckled and pulled him to his chest. The hug was welcome, more welcome than Takahiro thought anything could be. He held him around the middle and put his head on his shoulder. 

“I smell like the dead,” Issei said into his hair “but you needed this.”

“I did,” Takahiro said, voice muffled, the shoulder of Issei’s shirt getting damp under his face. Then he sniffled, “take me home. Take me back.”

And Issei did.

* * *

They’d had a flame back in high school, so many years ago. It was something light and fleeting, puppy love, they called it, though they’d never called it love. They hung out together, they kissed, they slept together, and they had plenty of firsts with one another. Yet, they never dated despite the exclusivity of their thing. They graduated and went their separate ways – everyone did – and that was it. 

Takahiro took a cold shower in Issei’s bathroom and then popped out, mostly sober, a little dizzy, and fully naked save for a towel around his midriff. Issei told him to feel at home. He found the bedroom and lay down on the bed, waiting for Issei to return from his shower. _It’ll take a while_ , Issei explained, _need to scrub off the smell._

“A mortician,” Takahiro murmured in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “guess it suits you. You get to be silent. You were always good with silence."

And the thoughts crept back once again, undusted, shameful, and dreadful. Takahiro thought of how cold it must feel, to be dead, laid down on a marble slab. How you’re sliced open and have someone look at your insides, into your ribcage, seeing your heart. He brought up a hand up to the left side of his chest and held it there, feeling it warm and beating. Yet he shivered. The dreadful place his thoughts sauntered to almost daily, telling him to end it quietly shrivelled away, just a tad. His mind was in disarray, and he was not quite there, but he feared it now; he feared the cold of the marble slab, and he feared having his chest sliced open. 

When Issei returned and turned on the lights, Takahiro groaned and closed his eyes. Issei was wearing pyjamas bottoms and nothing else. Takahiro fixed his eyes on him; he was fit, but there was a softness to his body that Takahiro found alluring. He smelled nice and fresh now. But the thought of death lingered.

Issei smiled, eyeing him. “Oh,” he murmured, “you’re naked on my bed.”

“I seem to be,” Takahiro confirmed. He returned the smile, “not fully, though.”

The mattress creaked when Issei lay beside him, a careful distance away, looking at him. They held each other’s gaze for a moment that unravelled all of it. All of it. In silence. It’d always been in the silence that they’d found their best words. 

“Is it cold?”

“What is?”

“To be dead.”

“I’ve never been dead, I’m afraid,” Issei said and smiled, “but if you’re asking me if you’re cold when you’re dead, then yes. Cold as can be. Skin waxy and rubbery, cold as the slab. Unless you hold the service outside in the sun during burials,” he paused. Takahiro was drinking his words with his eyes glassy and unblinking, “then I believe the skin warms up. It has led to some awkward situations, too. My boss doesn’t like outdoor services for that reason.”

Takahiro was silent, thinking, heart thumping in his chest.

“Awkward? How?”

“Oh, relatives,” Issei explained. He shrugged a little. "They hold the hand of the deceased and it feels slightly warm, from the sun, and they start wailing,” he paused and sighed, then continued talking, “sometimes they’re aware it’s the sun. But sometimes they’re delirious and start trying to get the dead to rise, thinking they’re alive,” he paused and clucked his tongue, then finished his explanation, “when I know they’re not because I embalmed them. I saw their heart not beating and filled it with formaldehyde and the sweet ones. I massaged their tense, dead muscles to make it seem like they’re resting. I’ve made their faces look nice and less dead. I suppose I do my job well.”

Takahiro smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The anxiety was coursing through him, and the alcohol was going away. Dissociation made him do all sorts of crazy things; it made him forgetful, it made him want to end it all, and he almost had that afternoon. But now? Now he was terrified of going on a slab of marble, being pried open with a scalpel, being warmed up by the sun, and someone wailing that he was alive when he wasn’t.

And he realised with a pang that he wanted to be; like all living things, he wanted to be alive. All he wanted was for the painful thoughts and feelings to go away.

“Feel me,” he said, his voice shaky, “touch me and tell me. Tell me if I’m alive.”

“Pardon?”

“Please, Issei,” Takahiro pleaded, “tell me if I’m alive.”

“You don’t know if you’re alive?”

“I don’t.”

“I’m pretty sure you are. The dead usually stay quiet,” Issei said and smiled. He didn’t see it because he forgot time had passed, and seeing Takahiro then felt like no time had passed. But it had, and he’d forgotten about that, “There’s the occasional fart, sometimes a scream from air trapped in the lu- oh dear,” he stopped his little joke when he saw that Takahiro was full-on sobbing, like a child, his face suddenly drenched. He didn’t think it’d be that bad. That crazy thrift store outfit should have warned him about what happened, but it hadn’t. He’d been happy to see Takahiro after a rough day of work, and he’d been selfish and hadn’t seen. He should have been able to see.

What he did next wasn’t at all to humour Takahiro; it was a way to comfort him.

He shuffled closer to Takahiro, propped himself on one elbow beside him, and brought his free left hand to the left side of his chest. His heartbeat felt like that of a small mammal – it beat too quickly, too scared. Takahiro sniffed and gasped, taking his shaking hands off his eyes and looking at him.

“ _Very_ alive,” Issei whispered, his eyes on him and his hand moving carefully across the soft, warm skin of his chest, “delightfully alive, I’d add for emphasis,” he said and then smiled, despite his stinging eyes, “you’re okay, Takahiro. You’re alright.”

Takahiro snorted but shook his head.

“I promise you that you are, you’re alright,” he said, and then he corrected, “or you will be.”

“How do you, what do you do to cut them up?” Takahiro asked, voice small and shaky. Issei shook his head.

“I’m not telling you that, I’m sorry,” he told him and meant it. He would not tell him, “you’re like this because it scared you, the thought of death.”

“No,” Takahiro said. His voice was choked and strained, but he smiled “I’m like this because I wanted to die. But I didn’t. I got soaked,” he paused to breathe and let out a laugh that sounded like a whimper, “until I saw you and learnt what you did, I never stopped to think about what being dead means… and I hate being cold. I hate it so much, Issei…”

Issei looked at him, his hand still on his chest. He slid it up to his neck and felt the pulsing jugular with two fingers. 

“You’re warm, you’re very warm,” he said, “and very alive,” he repeated, “and it hurts to hear that, it hurts so much… you should have looked for me. If we ran into each other, we ought to have been close all along,” he stopped a moment and mused, seeing Takahiro’s smile, “but I don’t think you wanted to see anybody.”

Takahiro nodded and then shook his head.

“I’m a hot mess, I want to be a comedian, I want to be funny, I want to make a difference but… I’ve always been a no-good, and I’m a big coward, didn’t even get into social media. Then my brain started getting blurry…” he stopped a moment and closed his wet eyes, smiling “it fucking sucks here, I’ll tell you that.”

Issei snorted. “Bullshit,” he said. Takahiro opened his eyes, “bullshit. You’ve always been brilliant, but you’re too hard on yourself,” he stopped and sighed, “and you have to seek help for the other stuff. There’s only so much I can do, no matter how much I care about you.”

Takahiro snorted. “It’s been so long, I can’t believe you still care,” he said, and then “why do you care about me?”

“Why wouldn’t I care?”

“Because I don’t.”

“All the more reason for me to care,” Issei said back. His hand was still on Takahiro’s chest, and the heart inside it was beating fast, but less scared. “I wish I could fling some outlandish cheesy stuff at you like you’ve been on my mind all these years, but that’s only partially true,” he said and smiled, seeing Takahiro smile too. “What is true is that seeing you tonight was just what I needed, especially because you’re more beautiful now.”

Takahiro’s cheeks got warm, and he chortled.

“I am, am I? Even with the crazy hat and that outfit?” 

“The shorts were the first thing I noticed, actually, or rather,” Issei started and then smiled. “I noticed the legs and the lack of underwear”, he corrected himself. Takahiro’s face glowed with his smile, the first real one that day, and he laughed.

“You could tell?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s why you asked if I was looking to score,” Takahiro said, “they just didn’t have underwear. I don’t think anyone would have wanted to lay me, though, not looking like that. I believe the hat worked as a shield of sorts.”

Issei chortled. He slid his hand down to Takahiro’s side, just over his ribs, and felt his chest rise and fall. His breath hitched. He remembered how sensitive Takahiro was and smiled, their eyes meeting.

“If this talk about stiffs could be dropped completely,” Issei started, voice low, “I’d much prefer it because if they keep going, I will be unable to get a good, alive, _stiffy.”_ He paused, assessing Takahiro’s expression, “Taking that that’s something you want, too, of course.”

Takahiro chuckled heartily.

“Can’t believe you pulled that on me,” he said, “making stiff jokes. My God, I missed you so much, Issei. You were the only one who got it. You indulged my jokes,” his voice wavered, but he smiled and rolled to the side, leaning over, “even when they were stupid.”

“Lots of people like stupid jokes,” Issei told him, matter-of-factly, smiling, their breaths mingling with the closeness, “I just happened to like you more than the average person.”

And Takahiro pressed his lips against his, tentative at first. Issei’s arm circled his waist and pulled him close, and it was no longer a question but a statement. They tumbled on the mattress, awkwardly and chuckling into the kiss because of that. It was a kiss that felt like a million bucks, and Takahiro heart drummed in his chest. Issei let him have his way and switch them around, letting him straddle him and stay on top.

“You always liked to stay on top,” Issei whispered into his mouth, cupping his naked butt with his warm hands after getting rid of the towel. He eyed his body when he sat up, golden skin gleaming in the tawny light from his ceiling, his cheeks a sweet shade of red, “my God.”

“I hope that’s good,” Takahiro said and reached over to the bedside table for Issei’s electric digital clock. Issei’s smile was full of memories and fondness. Takahiro found the radio button, and the grainy transmission filled the silence of that warm room. He looked for the station manually, “hope it still exists. Can’t seem to find it.”

“Try 95.4, they changed it.”

“Oh, they did?” Takahiro asked with a grin and flicked to the station he wanted. It was an oldies station, had nothing but music for about 17 hours every day; all the best hits from the 1920s through the 1960s. They had no idea where it came from, but their best theory had always been someone doing it illegally, for no reason other than ‘why not’.

“Oh, Drifters,” Issei said. He recognised the first chords of the tune to ‘Up on the Roof’, and smiled, seeing Takahiro smile and put the radio-clock back, “perfect sex music.”

“Not as good as Edith Piaf that one time,” he said and grinned, “I missed sex with you, missed getting railed to the sound of oldies.” Issei chuckled. Takahiro rubbed his crotch against Issei’s and earned a long breath from him, “no underwear either. Brilliant.”

“I don’t wear underwear to bed,” Issei told him when he leaned onto him again, pressing his chest to his and kissed his lips, “I promise I wasn’t getting any ideas.”

Takahiro chuckled into the kiss and got away, looking him in the eyes.

“That’s disappointing. I knew the hat was a turn-off but damn,” he said. Issei slid his hands up and rested on the shallows of his sides. Takahiro’s skin prickled at the touch, and he smiled.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Issei told him and craned his neck to get another kiss that Takahiro was happy to give him, cupping his cheeks between his hands, supporting his weight with the strength of his legs.

“You’re getting them now, I hope,” Takahiro said, smiling into the kiss, “unless that’s a particularly hard and hot ghost, rising from the depths of the past. Or maybe someone is up for some stand-up action.”

“Shut up,” Issei said and chortled. He didn’t mean it and the stupid jokes were welcome. None of his previous lovers enjoyed jokes like that, much less jokes involving his job. He welcomed them like the summer breeze at the edge of spring, ‘This Magic Moment’. The Drifters kept droning on, happily and they drifted into the moment, breathing life into each other, “but keep talking.”

Takahiro’s face shimmered, and his eyes were pink as his hair was pink and his face, which gleamed in a joy Issei wanted to share with him.

“Keep talking? Hm, nice suggestion,” he said and slid off Issei, who wasn’t sure what he was going to do until he saw him slide right down, after kissing his cheeks, both of them, holding his neck, that he kissed next, and then his chest and his stomach. Issei gasped when he felt his breath against his growing hard-on after he pulled the hem of his bottoms down to his knees. Something about not being completely naked made his cock get harder. Takahiro held it with care in his warm hand and touched the tip with the forefinger of his other hand, “test 1, 2. This thing on?” he said and chuckled seeing Issei lose it despite himself and despite how _on_ he indeed was “I believe tonight’s show is about to get deep and throaty.” 

Takahiro wet his lips, and before going in for the deepthroat, he licked it from the base to the tip, slicking it up. Issei tensed up under him and put his hands on his hair out of reflex. Takahiro cupped his balls and caressed them, kissing them before licking his way up the now fully hard cock and going in for the deepthroat, hollowing out his cheeks. Issei gasped and moaned his name, the lewd sound going right down to Takahiro’s cock. He gagged a little but didn’t bother with it, he knew Issei liked it when that happened, and he did, too. Takahiro got Issei’s hard and slobbered cock of his mouth with a soft pop and licked the pre-cum out of his lips. 

Issei stared down at him, eyes dark and cheeks flushed, breathing heavy and hard.

“Condoms? Lube? Tell me you got them somewhere, or I’ll fucking cry again,” Takahiro said, “I want to be all warmed up, you know? On the inside.”

“What do you want to do?” Issei asked, voice raspy and breathy. Takahiro ignored the question.

“Condoms and lube, sir, any other matters shall be discussed after I am assured that these essential items are within these four walls,” he demanded. Issei chuckled, his chest swelling with joy, seeing his high school best friend right there, so different but with his sense of humour intact.

“Er. I think they’re somewhere… oh, maybe I ran out…” he teased. Takahiro gave him a look of absolute dread, “I’m joking, love, you need to get up though. I put them in the chest of drawers,” he gestured with his chin. Takahiro was already on his feet. “Careful” Issei warned, seeing him wobble and holding onto the windowsill of the open window. Takahiro grinned at him.

“All good,” Takahiro said and padded over to the chest of drawers.

“Top one.”

He pulled it open, got the stuff out, and slammed it shut. The mattress creaked under his weight when he straddled Issei’s lap again and pushed him onto it. Issei sat back up. Takahiro looked at him, mildly confused as he tried to pry open the condom wrapping. Issei put his hands over his. They were steadier now, but Issei had felt them on him.

Ray Charles was on now, on the radio, crooning 'I can’t Stop Loving You'.

“I’ll help, silly. Unless you want to get hurt,” he said. Takahiro locked eyes with him and then smiled. He kissed him, pressing his chest to his as he let him take the stuff and put them aside. Their kisses tasted somewhat like alcohol, sweet, orangey, cosy. Issei palmed Takahiro’s sides and held him, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his soft folds of skin on his stomach. They broke away from the kiss. Takahiro leant his forehead against Issei’s and smiled, closing his eyes “I’m very against hurting you, Takahiro."

“I know,” Takahiro murmured, “I want to be on top though.”

“I thought you’d said…” Issei started but Takahiro opened his eyes and looked at him with a cheeky smile.

“You’d imagine that there were no ways to get a cock up your ass while being on top, but that’s where you’d be wrong, see?” he said and Issei chuckled, realising his mistake, “The cock is this ingenious device that can be made to stay up with the right amount of stimulation. That’s when you can sit on it and let it slide into you for a most delightful experience.”

Issei missed the silly commercial tone he used to explain obvious things, and he chuckled at it. Neither was talkative, but they did love jokes and happened to enjoy talks and jokes during sex.

“Thank you for the thorough explanation,” he played along, “but I do believe I must stretch you out a little bit before my cock goes anywhere near your ass.”

Takahiro scrunched his nose.

“It will hurt otherwise, Takahiro,” he reminded him, reasonably. 

“With the right amount of lube…” Takahiro argued and reached his hand down to hold Issei’s hard cock. Issei’s breath caught, “there’s no need for that.”

“I can still use the head up here, even if you hold the one down there, smarty pants,” he told him and saw Takahiro frown and pout, “I told you, I’m not hurting you. You can barely tolerate pain.”

“Says who?”

Issei pinched his side in a way that’d grab only the skin, and he whimpered, making a face.

“Says you, I’ve seen you pass out from minor cuts,” Issei said, matter-of-factly, “stop fussing and raise your ass.”

Takahiro sighed and relented. He put his arms around Issei’s neck and buried his face in his shoulder. He heard the pop of the lube bottle being opened and dripping the liquid out. It was warm when Issei brought it to his hole, spreading his cheeks with the other hand.

“Good?”

“The temperature?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s good, yeah. Get on with it,” he urged and nibbled on the sensitive skin of Issei’s neck, feeling his breath catch. Then his own caught, and he whimpered. 

_Right,_ so Issei had been right. Nothing had gone up his ass in a long time, and maybe getting railed with no prep would have been dumb. He did have a low tolerance to pain. The odds of him passing out were, as Issei well-remembered, quite high. That had been what had saved him that day, too. The moment his chest started aching, he’d swum.

“If it hurts too much…”

Takahiro’s eyes watered, fluttering shut. “Keep going,” he said through gritted teeth, “just find the magic button to stop the pain,” he pleaded. Issei’s chuckle vibrated under his skin. The jokes came naturally even when he was uncomfortable. Issei needed a moment and another finger to find it. The pain subsided. Takahiro breathed heavily, and his legs tensed up. 

“Don’t push it too much,” he whimpered against his neck “or I’ll come. I’m no porn star” he heard Issei snort and finished the whimpered joke “I come once, and I’m out of the game.”

Issei kissed his cheek after pulling his fingers out. “Right,” he said. Takahiro sighed and helped him get the condom on. Then they lubed it up, very generously, and just for good measure, added a bit more. 

“Now you lie on your back,” Takahiro said, voice hoarse, “and the only noises I want to hear coming out of your mouth are incoherent, my name or some variations of the above. You see me wince, you stay there and enjoy yourself, you hear me?”

Issei obeyed and smiled. “Yessir,” he said. Takahiro nodded and breathed heavily. He positioned himself better. Guiding Issei’s cock to his hole to the sound of The Platters’ 'Twilight Time' was an experience in itself and helped him toughen up and slide it in. The lube was the kind that warmed up as you went, and the heat was welcome. It seeped through him and oozed into his insides as he arched his back and winced. Issei held his thighs and gasped. The tightness was unbearable, as was the warmth. 

“Takahiro…” he said, his voice breathy, and his eyes opened, to see him. See the red of his cheeks get deeper, see the rise and fall of his chest. He reached an hand over, still helping him stay in place with the other, and grabbed his cock. Takahiro whimpered and moaned his name, tears trickled slowly down his burning cheeks and slid down the sides of his jaw, falling on Issei’s stomach “ar-“

The Shirelles had started singing ‘Will you still love me tomorrow?’

Takahiro leant forward and clapped a hand over Issei’s mouth. “Not… a word,” he said through his teeth, holding himself up with the other hand “it’s good… fuck…” he stuttered and leant back again. It was what it took for Issei’s cock to graze over his prostate. He bit his lower lip and tensed up around him. Issei gripped his cock a little harder out of reflex.

“Hang on, hang on,” he managed to say, tears streaming down his face. He took a trembling hand and tried to wipe them a little, “fuck, can I stop crying?” he complained. Issei smiled watching him slick his hair back. He looked beautiful from down there, tall, red, aroused, and overwhelmed, “I’d forgotten how good it felt.”

“Me in particular or cock in general?” Issei asked, winded and taken but still up for a joke.

“ _You_. If I missed cock in general, I could have gotten it whenever I damn pleased.” Takahiro told him and shut him up by starting to move, slowly, up and down, picking up a comfortable rhythm. Issei’s knees buckled, and he jerked him off with a tight grip, slicked up in lube, drawing whimpers and swears from the man riding him. Takahiro wasn’t very coherent when he was about to come, and neither was Issei. They called each other’s names, Issei moaned, throaty and winded, and Takahiro whimpered and cried and moaned things that didn’t make sense.

The Drifters were back, and they were singing ‘Stand by Me’. That reached them. They wanted that, too. They came a bit after that. Takahiro made a mess on Issei’s chest and collapsed on him. He would have hurt him in the process if it hadn’t all been so slippery, and his softening cock hadn’t slipped out of his ass as he fell.

“I could have hurt you,” Takahiro said. His reason returned when he kissed his lips after catching his breath and peeling himself of Issei’s chest, “fuck, I’m sorry. I told you I just dropped.”

Issei kissed his lips and smiled, shaking his head, the afterglow of fantastic sex washing over him. Over them. He put his arms around Takahiro, feeling his breath return to normal. “Nothing happened, it’s alright,” he said. Takahiro sighed.

“I don’t remember it being so good then, but it was good, I remember it was,” he said. Issei chuckled, “practice makes perfect, I guess.”

“Back then they didn’t have this kind of lube,” Issei reminded him and earned a hum “we had to be there rubbing our hands to get the stuff to warm up, and then it’d be too little of it.”

Takahiro chuckled against his neck. “We didn’t even have proper lube,” he said, “I remember getting Vaseline and what was that crap, the stuff that feels like you’re meant to cook with it.”

“Almond oil… or coconut oil? No, you do cook with that one,” Issei said. Takahiro nodded.

“The first one, hated the stuff, so greasy and cold,” Takahiro said, “technology is fantastic.”

Issei chuckled. “Technology,” He repeated “is the last thing I’d expect lube to be called.”

Paul Anka was on and singing ‘Put your head on my shoulder’ in that soft, quiet, and raspy transmission of the oldies.

“It’s accurate, though,” he defended. His head was indeed on Issei’s shoulder, soaking in his warmth.

Issei wiped up his hands on his bedspread and caressed his hair. He felt him breathe, soft and gentle, almost a purr. “Makes me think of trinkets and gadgets,” he said.

“What d’you call it then?”

“Hang on, let me just get rid of this,” Issei said and reached down to his cock with both hands, slowly pulled off the condom and tied it up before just sort of dropping it beside the bed, on the floor “there we go.”

Takahiro chuckled when his hands were back on him.

“Be a tragedy if someone steps on it later,” he said.

“Even more of a tragedy if he slips and falls wrong, then has to go to the ER buck naked and tell the doctors what happened, all the while covered in what is, unmistakably cum,” Issei said back. Then he laughed, hearing Takahiro laugh too.

“It was the technology, doc, tripped me right up,” Takahiro started the dialogue and then made another voice for the next character, the doctor, “and you’re naked because…?” he went back to his voice “this weather, got me a little too steamy, had to air it out,” the other voice again, Issei was quietly losing it, “and the cum is…?” back to his voice “the result of a most delightful experience.”

“Delightful experience,” Issei repeated, the smile warming up his words “truly was.” 

“Now what?” was what Takahiro asked next. Issei was quiet a moment.

“Now we start again unless you don’t want us to start again,” he said at last. Takahiro got his head off his shoulder to look at his eyes. Issei's smile was warm, gentle, and hopeful. “That’s what I want, Takahiro.”

“Did we ever call it what it was back then?” Takahiro asked, smiling back and kissing his lips for a moment. The first half of his answer. Issei smiled into the kiss.

“No, I don’t think we did,” he told him.

“We were just drifting along, and then drifted apart,” Takahiro said. He kissed his lips again and looked at his brown eyes, so warm. He missed that. He missed being in the arms of someone who understood him. He missed having a lover who was also a friend. “I worked for an insurance company until last year, you know? Life insurance in particular,” he told him and watched the smile bloom on his face, “guess we were in the same line of work, sort of. Opposite sides of it.”

“Where my side profits, yours lost money,” Issei completed his thought for him. Takahiro chortled and nodded, “and you dropped that.”

Takahiro sighed and nodded. “Yeah, between jobs right now,” he said. 

“Your next job will be in the entertainment industry, Takahiro,” Issei promised him “you’ll work on your health, and then you’ll go for that, you’ll _actually_ try it.”

“How do you know I haven’t tried?"

"You told me, silly. And if you had, you’d be there,” Issei replied. He meant it because it knew it. 

Takahiro snorted and leaned his head onto Issei’s shoulder again. “Until then… what?” he asked, “Unemployment ends next month or so, too scared to check.”

“If you’re fine with being a trophy lover for a while, you can live with me and find your way into open mics and the sort,” Issei said. Takahiro chuckled. “My job, as you can imagine, pays rather well. Especially when I knew the person on the slab.”

Takahiro prevented his mind from drifting into dangerous territory again.

“Is that what happened today?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“An acquaintance,” Issei said. Then sighed, “not particularly close, but particularly gruesome. I did a wonderful job. They’ll allow the open casket,” then he paused “this is the first time I talk about this stuff after sex. My previous lovers were very firm about not wanting to hear a word of it.”

“Tough,” Takahiro offered “and wimpy. Inconsiderate, too. It’s a burden too heavy to carry,” his tone was quiet and soothing when he said that “and I think that hearing about it will be good for me… so if that’s something you feel the need to talk about, I’m all ears. Or just the two of them,” he said. He sighed. Then, “being a trophy lover sounds beautiful. I can cook, sort of. I can clean, too. And greet you at the door in nothing but an apron on Thursday evenings.”

Issei held him tighter, his happiness overflowing to the sound of Fats Domino’s ‘Blueberry Hill’.

“How tired are you?”

Takahiro hummed. Not as much as he’d expect, considering the long and wild day he’d had. How he’d just become Matsukawa Issei’s lover, for real this time, and was all ready to move in.

“Not terribly,” he said “why? Do you want round two? I don’t think I have the energy for that.”

“No, love, I want to go out,” Issei said, “the night is cosy and nice. We can order some food and eat by the sea.”

Takahiro was silent, and his heart reminded him of his shame.

“The sea?”

“Takahiro,” Issei started, “I imagine what you tried to do, don’t say anything,” he stopped him seeing him open his mouth, “turn that memory into a better one. A kind of palimpsest of memories. Cover the bad one with a good one.”

Takahiro smiled and sighed. Then he nodded. They got up – nobody slipped on the used condom – cleaned up and got dressed in Issei’s clothes. Nothing wrong with the thrifted outfit, it was quite snazzy, but a fresh one would be better.

And they went off into the night, in Issei’s fancy Toyota, had Chinese takeout on the boardwalk, looking over the wide, dark, star-speckled sea. 

Takahiro knew then that he’d be alright. Like a second chance at life, he had Issei again. He’d taken him back as if no time had passed and would help him get back on his feet.

Maybe his dream would pull through and bloom.

* * *


End file.
